


It's Just A Sweet Sweet Fantasy Baby

by leiascully



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Community: bsg_pornbattle, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-04
Updated: 2009-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She only has five minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Just A Sweet Sweet Fantasy Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: S1  
> A/N: Originally written for [**bsg_pornbattle**](http://community.livejournal.com/bsg_pornbattle/) the Second. Title is from the Mariah Carey song "Fantasy". The prompts were "five minutes" and "fantasy".  
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

She only has five minutes. She's due at a meeting in twenty, and it'll take fifteen to brush her hair and regain her composure. She knows exactly how long it takes the flush to fade from her chest; there's been no privacy at all since the worlds ended, except these five minutes that she has to herself before Billy knocks on her door.

Still, Laura changes into her favorite nightgown, moving deliberately. It's the pale pink satin one with the floral design. Despite everything, it makes her feel sexy. It's something about the way it brushes against her thighs, like a first advance in a bar, when there's so much promise and delicious tension. It's something about the way her breasts strain lightly against the fabric. It reminds her of better days. She leaves her panties off, in a crumpled little heap of cotton and lace.

She lays down on her bed, very conscious of the chair that's through the door, but the chair is for other days, when she has more time, when she doesn't have meetings. She wriggles against the sheets and lets her hand wander down her chest. If she had more time, well. If she had more time, maybe she wouldn't be here alone. She flips through her mental catalogue of fantasies, but what floats to the front of her mind is deliciously vague: a beach, sun and water, and someone's hands caressing her, someone's body pressed against her back. Right now she doesn't care whose. There's no conversation, just hands and the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair.

Her fingertips stroke up the inside of her thigh. She's going slowly, too slowly, but she wants this five minutes to feel like an eternity. When she touches her clit, she gasps, and then catches herself. She licks her lips and can almost taste salt air. Her fingers slide easily along her folds; she's wet, delightfully wet, and she dips in and caresses her way back to her clit. It's a shallower pleasure, but it's faster, and that's what she needs. She draws circles, letting her nails scrape lightly over the edges. She's breathing faster already. The lightest touch of sunburn, she thinks, imagining the heat of it, remembering the sting and the cool bottle of aloe she kept in the refrigerator. Her hips roll against her hand, but she keeps teasing herself with those quick little circles, imagining the friction of sand on her skin.

A vacation, gods, she's frakking herself to the thought of a vacation. A break from all of this. Oddly, she's okay with it. Her lower back tenses, arching slightly. Her thighs are splayed open as she rocks against her fingers, unashamed, and she can see the points of her nipples standing out under the satin. She touches her breast with the hand that's not between her legs, pinching her nipple gently, squeezing her breast. She's getting closer and closer; her imagined sunlight is starting to sizzle on her skin; she's gulping for air. She presses her thumb into her clit and slides her fingers into her cunt, finally, gods, needing that pressure, pushing until she hits the spot that sends her over every time, like she's crashing into the waves, like she's submerging in the ocean, the thrill and the relief of it on her hot skin.

She comes back to herself, in her rack, on Colonial One. She has fifteen minutes to reorient herself. Fifteen minutes to be the President instead of another anonymous woman in a sarong sipping something fruity and potent.

Laura Roslin washes her hands and changes her clothes. She pulls her panties back on with fingers that quiver. She brushes her hair. Deep breaths, she reminds herself, and a dusting of powder. She's ready.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Five Minutes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/87221) by [A Magiluna Stormwriter (ariestess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/pseuds/A%20Magiluna%20Stormwriter)




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